My heart cries like a beaten child, Ceaselessly, all night long; And I must take my own heart cries And thread them neatly into a song. My heart cries like a beaten child, And I must listen, stark and terse, Dry-eyed and critical, to see What I can turn into a verse. This was a sob at the hour of three, And this when the first cock crew -- I wove them into a dainty song, But no one thought it true! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AT THE BRITISH MUSEUM by RICHARD ALDINGTON GHOSTS OF A LUNATIC ASYLUM by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET LONELY BURIAL by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET CONTRA MORTEM: THE LEAVES by HAYDEN CARRUTH CONTRA MORTEM: THE TREES by HAYDEN CARRUTH |